


Climb Higher, Higher

by Interrobang



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (sort of), Geralt Is Too Tired For This, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Only One Bedroll, cuddling for warmth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25150726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Interrobang/pseuds/Interrobang
Summary: Jaskier liked to think he lived in a world with decent logic: summers were hot but fruitful, a time to make your coin and travel the continent and gather your tales; winters were harsh, especially the further north you marched, and were the domain of the dead— of ice and rock and wind, growth on pause until the sun and its life-giving rays made their return. While summer was the season of travel and adventure, winter was when one was meant to hunker down and take comfort in survival.It would then, of course, be Geralt’s goal to get as far away from all warmth and safety as was possible.--Jaskier follows Geralt into the hills and complains the whole time, except when he doesn't.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 256
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	Climb Higher, Higher

**Author's Note:**

> This was a commission, and also my first jump into the Witcher fandom as a writer. Enjoy!

.

Jaskier liked to think he lived in a world with decent logic: summers were hot but fruitful, a time to make your coin and travel the continent and gather your tales; winters were harsh, especially the further north you marched, and were the domain of the dead— of ice and rock and wind, growth on pause until the sun and its life-giving rays made their return. While summer was the season of travel and adventure, winter was when one was meant to hunker down and take comfort in survival. 

It _would_ then, of course, be Geralt’s goal to get as far away from all warmth and safety as was possible. There’d been reports of kikimora sighted on the far side of the crest, he’d said, and he wanted to get there before the beasts’ brooding season started in full. There’d be eggs laid now, incubating through the cold months, and he wanted to get a head start before they all hatched and wreaked havoc come spring.

He’d not so much as given Jaskier a choice as made a final offer: wait out the winter in comfort, warbling for the local fur-swaddled nobles, drinking away the winter with a malcontented Yennefer (currently in a local noble’s employ) for company...or seek new, exciting material for his work.

And so Jaskier, aware that he was being _exceptionally_ foolish in giving up steady coin and a warm place to sleep, had followed the witcher, having assumed that when Geralt had hummed noncommittally at Jaskier’s search for details, that it meant the jagged limestone petals of the peaks might not be as bad as the townspeople made it sound.

Oh, how he was wrong. 

If it were not for Yennefer— sweet, terrible, wonderful Yennefer— Jaskier would not have lasted more than a day into the trek. At their last parting, hearing that Jaskier meant to follow the witcher into the mountains in the clutches of late autumn, she had given her tinkling laugh and said, “Oh, you’re not _serious_.” 

Then, given a beat of silence, “Ah. You are.” Jaskier took the incredulous shake of her head for fondness. “Perhaps one day he’ll let you into that old castle he liked to talk about, hm? You won’t survive a day out there as you are, though.”

She had then produced, from nowhere Jaskier could see, a wealth of thick, warm clothing Jaskier was sure she never would have needed herself, and plied it on him with a heavy wink.

“Can’t be a bard with no fingers to play your little lute, can you?” She’d said when he’d protested. “I’m sure the elf didn’t give that to you just to watch you waste it.”

And so he had taken the clothes, beautiful and warm and probably not fully of this material plane, and followed Geralt up the mountain.

The first half of the trip was long if not harrowing, but Jaskier had the furs Yen had thrown at him along with his own goods, which, while Geralt may have thought them frivolous, at least kept him from becoming a human icicle. The furs didn’t keep Jaskier’s face from getting horribly chapped, or his voice from cracking in the dry wind, but it was good enough, and if the conversation was sparse at least Jaskier could rest easy in the knowledge that Geralt liked him enough to share the sparse rodentia they could find to roast this high up in the crags.

The night, of course, was still miserable. Wind blew directly down the bald head of the mountain into their tiny camp, which was shielded only just barely by the scrubby trees, the only thing that would grow this high up. Their attempt at a fire barely lasted long enough to melt some snow for water before sputtering out, scattered to ash and smoke in the wind. 

Made more frustrating was the fact that the kikimore colony was surprisingly easy to exenterate. It took little more than a well-aimed stirring of the sword on each nest, smashing each glistening egg to gooey remains, for Geralt to deem it a job done. Jaskier felt rather like he’d watched a farmer drown a bag of unwanted kittens instead of the grand adventure he’d been promised.

Marching back down was no better, Geralt silent at his side. Even half-joking attempts at composing _(a bug in its bed, not so much snug as dead…)_ did not elicit a reaction. Jaskier was fed up. His joints were stiff, his jaw hurt from clenching it against the frost, and his lungs ached from the thin air. His feet were swollen; his blisters had blisters. He was never climbing a mountain again.

“I am never climbing a mountain again,” he said out loud, just to drive home the point. They’d stopped about an hour south of the kikimora nests, settling in for the night.

“Good,” Geralt grunted. “You didn’t have to _this_ time, either.”

“Of course I did,” Jaskier said. “While there may not be much for the belly up here, there is plenty of food for the _soul_ , dear witcher. There’s a certain romance to the White Wolf of Rivia withdrawing to the top of the world, the harshest winds battering his long white fur...or some such other nonsense, you know how it goes.” He frowned. “Even if that turned out to be a bust, too.”

“Hm.” Jaskier studiously ignored the small upward quirk of Geralt’s mouth. 

The witcher continued attempting to spark a fire despite the wind, to no avail, finally throwing aside the pile of scrub and instead making to lay out his bedroll for the night with a sigh. “We’ll be through the worst of it tomorrow. Wind’ll be at our back on the way down.”

Jaskier patted the patch of dirt he’d claimed as his own. “We could make it easier _now_ , you know,” he said, trying to sprawl invitingly but— with all the padded clothing he was wearing— most likely looking more like a great soft toy come to life. “Cut our losses. No one’s here to see us; why not share some body heat?” He grinned. “Come on, Geralt! We could push the bedrolls together. I have been told I am an _excellent_ big spoon.”

“No.” Geralt said, frowning in the way that Jaskier knew meant he was at least a little confused as to why Jaskier had even offered. 

“What, too good to share a bed with me?” Jaskier eyed the ground. “Or a ...patch of mud? We’d be a great pair: you run as hot as a devil half the time and I have…” He struggled to think of what he could offer here. “I have my wits. My _talent_. I could sing you to sleep. I’ve been working on a lullaby version of _Toss A Coin,_ you know.”

Geralt’s brows deepened their angle. “Does your _talent_ keep you warm at night?”

Jaskier beamed as smugly as he dared. “No, but these furs Yennefer lent me do, and you’re looking a bit frosty there, old friend.”

Geralt eyed his plush ensemble apprehensively. Jaskier kept perfectly still as the witcher eyed his long bear-skin cloak, which Jaskier had been using as a blanket. He seemed to come to a favorable conclusion with whatever internal math he was doing when he said, “We sleep back to back. No cuddling.”

All told, it wasn’t so bad. The furs Yen had leant him were thick and warm, though a draft came in at the edges where Jaskier kept his hands tucked tightly against his chest. Geralt was like a furnace at his back, emitting more heat than Jaskier thought possible from one living creature. It was enough to actually lull him into a deeper sleep, not the intermittent heavy blinking of the past several nights of their trek. 

And yet he woke in the middle of the night wrapped around the most luxurious heat, firm and giving and molded perfectly to his front. For a brief moment, he thought he was back at his parents’ estate, napping with the family’s old nanny dog in his childhood bed. He sighed, squeezing the great beast round the middle.

But then sweet Aggie grumbled very much like a tired witcher, and Jaskier froze, suddenly very aware of where he was. He blinked against the dark, brain fuzzy from sleep. Geralt probably wouldn’t appreciate having his belly rubbed. But then again, he _might_ , and who was Jaskier of all people to shame someone for their predilections?

Fuck, but he _was_ tired.

Jaskier relaxed slowly when long minutes passed with Geralt making no further comment other than a soft sigh in his sleep. The witcher made an excellent little spoon, no matter _what_ he said. He was warm, a great shape for grabbing onto, and he even seemed to reciprocate the cuddling, if his hand tightening over Jaskier’s arm was any indication. It didn’t help that Jaskier had slipped one leg between Geralt’s own, making it difficult to extricate himself because of Geralt’s stupidly thick thighs. 

There was only one problem with the whole situation that Jaskier could see, now that he was a little more lucid: his cock was hard as an iron bar at his hip, with seemingly no idea it was in the middle of the freezing mountains with only a tentative truce between it and dismemberment. 

Under normal circumstances, Jaskier would have pulled away and gone to deal with this problem off in the woods. But these particular mountains were fucking _freezing,_ and Geralt was like a human bonfire, emitting the most intense and magnificent warmth. Jaskier huffed and tried to settle himself. The hard-on would go away eventually, he was sure.

Except then Geralt tugged him closer, shifting ever so minutely in his sleep back against Jaskier’s chest. It conveniently— or not so conveniently, from some viewpoints— rubbed his very firm backside right up against where Jaskier needed space. 

Jaskier stared dead ahead, praying Geralt hadn’t heard the embarrassing squeak he’d let out. Indeed, Jaskier seemed to be in luck, for the witcher breathed as deep and slow as he always did in sleep. Not that Jaskier had noticed before, not intentionally, but you share an inn room enough times and you get used to a certain pattern of air in and out of your roommate’s lungs. 

Geralt’s heartbeat was slow against his ear where Jaskier had his head pillowed on the witcher’s back. He smelled good, too. The air was dry and cold but in the small warm space under the furs Geralt smelled like woodsmoke and pine and the clean leather scent of his armor that never quite left him. His hair was soft, sleep-tousled and silver in the wan moonlight, and Jaskier was so _tired_ , and surely Geralt wouldn’t mind if he— well, that was a lie, but it was forgivable, wasn’t it? —if Jaskier enjoyed this a bit more than was probably appropriate.

The gods, at least, would forgive him if he snuggled closer, and deepened the angle of his leg between Geralt’s thighs, and maybe tightened his grip about the witcher’s waist... He shifted his hips just to stave off the worst of the burning need in his gut.

The furs slipped, letting in an icy finger of wind. Geralt grunted, and tugged Jaskier’s arm around his waist more firmly. He pressed against Jaskier, who flushed and bit his lip. It was too much. Much too much.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, tentatively trying to extricate himself, to no avail. Sleep-Geralt didn’t seem inclined to let him go. “ _Geralt._ ”

Another grumble, and then the line of the witcher’s shoulders tensed as he came to consciousness.

“Jas?” Geralt mumbled. He was awake, but just barely, probably knocked out of the meditation-like sleep cycle he had never really explained to Jaskier in depth. “Okay?”

“Yes, er, very, but. Um,” Jaskier said intelligently. He made to pull away. Luckily, this time Geralt let his hand go.

But un-noodling himself from Geralt’s thighs was more difficult. It required a bit of maneuvering about the hips, jostling the blankets and letting in more cold air. Geralt shifted against him, presumably to try and give him more space, and Jaskier fucking— whimpered. He didn’t _mean_ to. It was a small noise, just barely more than a whimper, but all the same it was loud as a whore’s moan in the dark, inelegant and unmistakably erotic. 

Geralt stiffened, demeanor suddenly as hard and cold as the rocks they were sleeping on. For a brief moment, Jaskier truly thought that Geralt was going to gut him and leave him for whatever predators lived this high up.

And then Geralt relaxed— marginally— and put his head back down onto his pillow, and mumbled, “Just take care of it.”

“I— are you— I mean—” Jaskier stuttered, not quite sure what he even wanted to ask. 

Geralt didn’t answer. After a moment, his breathing evened out, apparently unbothered by Jaskier’s cock poking at his tailbone. 

Against his better judgement, Jaskier took himself in hand, slowly grinding against his palm and praying this would be quick. Just a quick tug and he could go back to sleep and hopefully Geralt would never mention this again.

It wasn’t intentional— Jaskier would have sooner jerked off while laying near a lion— but every so often his hand bumped up against the firm, sleep-warm skin of Geralt’s back, the fabric of his shirt rumpled and soft against Jaskier’s fist. Jaskier bit his palm trying to keep quiet. Tried to pull back a bit, give himself more room, but Geralt grumped in his sleep and yanked the blankets around himself more tightly. 

And pulled Jaskier with them. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jaskier hissed as his cock smeared across Geralt’s lower back. “Geralt-!”

Geralt didn’t answer. Just resettled himself in his sleep, pressing back into Jaskier’s warmth seemingly on instinct. 

And then he made a _very_ interesting noise. 

Not a moan. Not a whimper. Nothing so undignified. A— something. A hum, just at the edge of Jaskier’s hearing. 

Jaskier let go of himself immediately. Bit his lip almost to the point of bleeding when Geralt pressed back against him, making the small sound again. On instinct, Jaskier’s hand— still wet with his own precome— shot out to grip Geralt’s hip, perhaps in some attempt to keep this from getting any more awkward than it already was. 

Geralt hummed, and shifted again. Jaskier...didn’t know what to do. What was he supposed to _do?_

Jaskier leaned up inch by inch, trying not to let the cold air in and wake Geralt again. He peered over Geralt’s mountainous profile: the broad curve of his shoulders, the ridiculously tight waist, the swell of his hip, all soft in the few layers he slept in.

The tent in the front of his trousers, a scant few inches from Jaskier’s hand. 

Jaskier stared, bug-eyed, unsure what to do. 

Then the wind whipped by, icy and sharp, and Geralt tugged him back down, yanking his arm around his waist, and sighed. 

“Jas. Deal with it so we can sleep.”

“I’m _trying_ ,” Jaskier squeaked. “How am I supposed to do this with you grappling me?” Jaskier asked petulantly. He did not dare to tighten his hand on Geralt’s hip. 

Geralt grunted. Pressed against him, shifting his hips in a way that was most likely not meant to be sexy but definitely rubbed up against some parts of Jaskier’s anatomy that were _very_ invested in the proceedings. 

Slowly, as if approaching a manticore rearing up to bite him, Jaskier reached forward and slipped his hand down Geralt’s hip, wrapping his hand around his cock loosely, and squeezed.

Geralt’s breath hitched, but he did not object. 

Jaskier gripped more firmly, rubbing as hard as he dared over Geralt’s clothes. 

This time, he _felt_ the twitch against his palm, hard and heavy and oh, Geralt was pressing back against him, his breath rasping so faintly that Jaskier thought he might have imagined it. 

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up. Well then. 

He ground against Geralt slowly, not sure just how much jostling the man would tolerate. His cock ached from the glacial pace, already hard long before this and now rubbed ever so slowly over the smooth cleft of Geralt’s back where his shirt had ridden up, where his pants had slipped down as Jaskier ground against him. 

This was _not_ the time to draw things out, and so Jaskier ducked his nose into Geralt’s shoulder and pulled him back against Jaskier’s hips, grinding with _purpose,_ the embarrassment flooding his face as hot as any true arousal. It was _almost_ enough— he was so _close_ , could have just ground a bit more and been done with the whole thing— when Geralt threw one leg back over his hip, shifted himself bodily, and somehow shimmied his pants down in one move that Jaskier would have been very interested to know both how and _why_ he had learned. 

The _how_ didn’t really matter though, did it, when Geralt’s bare, firm ass was pressed against his cock, slick with sweat already. It couldn’t _possibly_ matter when Geralt was sighing into his arm, quiet as ever, but breath coming close and harsh, his hips shifting ever so minutely so that he could just barely fuck Jaskier’s fist.

Jaskier decided not. Who gave an everloving _shit_ how Geralt learned to undress so quickly, when it meant that here, in the middle of fuckoff nowhere, Jaskier could tug his pants down the rest of the way, slip his cock between Geralt’s thighs, and rock into the tight clutch of muscle and heat?

Not this bard.

Or maybe Jaskier cared _too_ much, biting back a host of desperate noises, rolling his hips between Geralt’s thick thighs, fisting the witcher’s dick in one hand and gripping his shoulder for leverage with the other.

Geralt grunted as Jasker whined and dug his teeth into one shoulder, hips slapping as he fucked between Geralt’s legs. He felt it when his cockhead bumped up against Geralt’s balls, a plush warmth against the head of his cock. They were heavy against his hand when he reached down to cup them, hot and pulsing faintly in his palm, and Geralt was apparently awake enough to move Jaskier’s hand _back_ to his cock, to wrap his hand over Jaskier’s and make a tight channel to fuck into. 

And gods, but Geralt had a thick cock. It twitched his hand, plump and wet and sliding through his curled fingers. Jaskier moaned into Geralt’s shoulder, breath a humid curl in the night air— and if he listened, just on the edge of hearing, he could just about hear Geralt echoing him.

Jaskier moved faster, his hand near to cramping but wet and slick and Geralt’s hand was over his own, rough fingers covering Jaskier’s hand so he could service him _right_ , and oh— Geralt’s breath was heavy now, raspy and loud and not quite desperate, but most definitely getting there. 

Jaskier grunted— once, twice, the slap of his hips echoing through the flat bit of rock they’d camped on, far too loud to Jaskier’s ears— and slammed between Geralt’s thighs, groaning into the meat of Geralt’s neck as his cock spilled slick and hot and wet against Geralt’s taint, oozing into a wet luxuriousness as Jaskier’s cock softened. 

He gasped noisily while he jerked Geralt off as hard and fast as he could, slicking wetly in the night air, Geralt’s hand tight around his own, just as desperate. Geralt tightened his thighs as he came, and oh, didn’t _that_ make Jaskier whimper, his cock spurting just that extra little bit as he settled, jittery and jelly-limbed, back into the pallet. 

He extricated himself slowly, half-managing to tuck Geralt back into his pants. The witcher was still an absolute mess. But Jaskier was sleepy, Geralt had barely said five words to him, and yes, okay, Jaskier was feeling a little vindictive about being pulled up to the mountains for little reward in the way of song material.

Geralt grimaced at the mess, then wiped his hand off on Jaskier— mutual revenge. Jaskier rolled his eyes. They’d deal with it in the morning. 

He settled back into the bedroll, adjusted the furs and blankets over them, and threw his arm back around Geralt’s waist, where it had been before this had all taken a turn for the desperately weird and— dare he say it— sexy. 

He was just dozing off again when Geralt murmured, “Don’t wake me again unless Roach is in danger.”

“What if _I’m_ in trouble?” Jasker mumbled petulantly.

Geralt sighed. 

“You’re always in trouble. And dragging me with you.”

Jaskier stifled a sleepy laugh, deciding not to call Geralt on the fond tone of his voice. Fair enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I used the word "dismemberment" in reference to destroying a penis, and yes, I AM proud of that particular pun.
> 
> Check me out on Twitter @GoInterrobang to see what else I'm working on these days!


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